


with all subjection

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Dissociation, Humiliation, Imperialism, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Unaroused Victim, a lot of headcanon, background Warrior of Light/G'raha Tia, threat of mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: (A martyr looking for a cause. Because he's always wanted to die for something worthwhile, to die for love. a footnote, forgotten-)The final battle at the end of Syrcus Tower ends...disastrously, and G'raha attempts to buy time with what is meant to be his death.(It would be kinder if he had died instead. Far kinder.)
Relationships: Emperor Xande/G'raha Tia|Crystal Exarch
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27
Collections: Anonymous, Nonconathon 2020





	with all subjection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonconamod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonconamod/gifts).



0\. 

Sometimes, G'raha's mind drifts, in the moments between, places he doesn't, can't, won't, will never remember clearly. Blank places, blank moments, where his mind skips sideways and he's only dimly aware of blue crystal just beyond his sight and the impossibly heavy weight on his back, the impossibly large body over him, in him. His mind fixes on random things: the last thing he'd read, the unfinished sentence in the report he'd been writing just before everything had gone wrong, ink dripping down the page, Krile's tart, fond disapproval. _Raha, learn to love yourself!_

_(He can't, he won't, never has, and what he'd always wanted had been to die for a cause, to die for love-)_

An enormous hand tangles in his loose hair and yanks back, pulling viciously, and G'raha is aware, all over again, of his body. _(Nothing but a vessel for someone else's lust, someone else's pleasure-)_ Sensation filters back - too much, too full, stretched open much too far, not enough oil _(there will never be enough oil, not for this-)_ , everything _hurts_ and there is no getting away from it. There is nowhere else he can go, not even away into his own mind. All he can do is endure: this is temporary, he reminds himself, thighs spread much too wide, clawing helplessly and desperately at the sheets, _(and so he has to believe)._ Until Mihata recovers, until he manages to put the twice-lived emperor back into the grave for good. He can bear this until then. He can. He _can._

 _(Xande wants to break him for his pleasure, as he had broken so many others before him: G'raha would rather die than break-)_

1\. 

This is when everything goes wrong: G'raha had already known Munekatsu Mihata was not the most graceful man to grace the face of the world. Above average, certainly, by most standards, not clumsy, but he favors strength over agility. Clever and fast with a sword and his tongue but he is not the most nimble sometimes, even if he's surprisingly quick for a man of his size: G'raha had danced circles around him when they'd first met, trying to keep the aethersand from him. The Warrior of Light is usually fast enough on his feet in battle despite this, though, able to dodge when necessary, at least. 

This is the one time he doesn't: G'raha sprints the whole way up the staircase in Syrcus Tower and _damn_ Rammbroes's efforts to keep him out, he's reminded him more than once that as an observer, _his authority doesn't extend to him_ , Unei and Doga doing their best, to keep up with Seeker of the Sun speed and stamina, and despite their height advantage over him he's still outpacing them. Scholar he might be, but he is far from sedentary, just as much a hunter as the rest of his tribe, though he'd left them behind a long time ago. He has nothing more than his instincts to go on, the instincts that are screaming at him now that something had gone very, very wrong, and while he prefers knowledge and evidence, he's never been one to ignore his instincts. _Especially_ not when he _knows_ the capabilities of the ancient emperor Mihata is fighting, has read about them in histories and first-hand accounts beyond number: one misstep means potentially deadly consequences. Better that he be wrong, than not- 

But G'raha _isn't_ wrong: his feet are slippery against blue crystal, especially with the aftershocks that he can feel rippling through the floor just outside the throne room, and with his momentum slides into the throne room, only to find Mihata unconscious on the floor, sword fallen beside him, and Xande standing above him, very wounded but alive, especially as he takes the reprieve to lift his staff and heal himself. 

"Pathetic," Xande pronounces, boredly, shaking his head, and lifts his bare hand to strike down Mihata: in that instant, G'raha is already pulling his bow off his back, nocking an arrow to the bowstring, aiming, and firing in one smooth motion. His aim is true, as he knew it would be, arrow right through Xande's hand - and the emperor's attention fixes on him, a conscious foe who had dared attempt to strike him but succeeded, rather than the unconscious Warrior of Light at his feet. Casually, Xande plucks the arrow from his hand, as easily as if he was pulling a thorn from his fingers, and throws it aside, and all his attention and singular, terrifying focus is now on G'raha. 

_(This was absolutely, objectively, a bad idea, but all that remained to them were bad ideas and worse mistakes, and this was the least mistake out of the lot, but for the first, and last, time in his life, he still may have bitten off more than he can chew-)_

"Get him out of here!" G'raha yells to Unei and Doga as he's running, already pulling another arrow out of his quiver, and while he doesn't have time to look not when he's leading the first-and-last Allagan emperor through the room on a life-and-death chase, can hear the two clones trying to drag the Raen samurai out of the room, with difficulty. He's a big man, an ilm or so over seven fulms tall, and even when _not_ unconscious and entirely dead weight is heavy: even the two Allagan clones would have trouble.

"Run when you can!" Unei calls to him, just before the two of them finally manage to get Mihata out of there. 

No, G'raha already knows that he can't run, even as he tries to make this last for as long as he can, keeping his distance: his speed and agility, as well as his aim, are the only advantages he has against Xande's overwhelming might. He'd known it the moment that he'd drawn his bow: that there was no escaping. That he would die here, because if the Warrior of Light had fallen against the ancient emperor, he stands absolutely no chance, less than none at all, especially with how little effect his arrows are having even with true aim, and he accepts his death with all of his heart. 

_(A martyr looking for a cause. Because he's always wanted to die for something worthwhile, to die for love. a footnote, forgotten-)_

Except G'raha doesn't take into account that Xande might not _want_ to kill him, until he's out of arrows and can't evade him any longer, not in the heart of his seat of rule, his Tower, his home, all that's left of his empire. Until he's lying on his back on the crystal floor, bow fallen just beside him, with the ancient emperor standing over him, looking down at him with more interest in his eyes than he's showed in anything else, especially with the complete indifference in his gaze when he'd looked down at Mihata. Still bored and apathetic, but something about him has caught the man's interest, and it takes G'raha a moment to work it out - and when he does, his blood runs chill. 

_(Hunger and the unfamiliar weight of Xande's lust pressing down on G'raha with just a look. G'raha knows himself to be beautiful but he does not think of himself as a thing to be wanted, not truly, even bathed in the warm light of Mihata's affection and desire. A thing that is both beautiful and unwanted, beautiful and not desired, never desired. When he was younger, a thoroughly unwanted and unwelcome kitten, he'd wanted to know what it was to be wanted. But now that he is wanted, the heavy weight of unwelcome, inescapable lust pressing down on him with no escape, he doesn't want to be wanted anymore-)_

"I wonder," Xande muses, idly, staring down at him, especially at G'raha's red right eye, poorly hidden beneath his bangs, as G'raha himself tries to reach for his bow. "Which of my useless descendants was responsible for _you_ , kitten." 

A shiver of horror runs through G'raha for a moment, though it doesn't distract him from trying to scrabble for his bow. He'd always known of his family's connection to ancient Allag, had grown up with that knowledge and passed-down stories, in a tribe that was once again caught between their own independence and the weight of an imperial overlord, though Garlemald mostly left them alone, unlike when they'd been under Allagan dominion. Even _before_ he'd studied in Sharlayan, learned everything he could about Allagan history, he'd known his family stories and the way certain details were talked around: even as a child, he'd known that their connection to Allag had come at the cost of considerable pain. He'd thought about it again, when Unei and Doga had named the 'Allagan Eye' for what it was, the possibilities for how royal blood had entered their bloodline. None of them are _good_ , given how Miqo'te had been treated under Allagan rule, as a conquered, subjugated race: driven from Eorzea and drafted into their armies and forced to serve as technicians and other servants, _at best_ , they hadn't been the _only_ race conquered by the Allagan Empire. But the Miqo'te refusal to assimilate or give up their independence even in the face of conquest, fiercely proud and insular, and their own emphasis on strength made them _stand out_ in a way that the other races did not, even when they resisted as well: sexualized as "savage beauties" that needed taming on one hand, ground into the dirt to try to force them to yield on the other. 

_(He'd been aware of the possibilities before, but it's different hearing it from the mouth of Xande himself-)_

The emperor's musing is brief, especially once G'raha manages to grab his bow, fingers closing around it desperately. Casually, Xande's foot comes down onto G'raha's wrist, the exact pressure precise and controlled: heavy enough that it _hurts_ , but not quite enough to break it, though the threat is clear and clearer with every passing moment, grinding painfully against flesh and bone until G'raha screams, high and ragged, and lets go of his bow, unable to hold onto it anymore. In the next moment, he's grasping for it again, despite how much his wrist hurts, but to absolutely no avail, as it's yanked out of his reach and easily snapped in half, pieces cast aside. Tries to scrabble desperately, uselessly, for the pieces, but he can't reach them, especially once that same foot settles on his back, shoving him face-first into the floor and holding him there, even as his tail lashes and his ears flatten against his head. 

"After all this time," Xande says, sounding bored and imperious. "You Miqo'te _still_ haven't learned your place, despite all the lessons your _betters_ tried to teach you." 

G'raha hisses, angrily, but gasps in pain as the foot grinds down a little more, the words on his tongue dissolving into a pained yelp. He struggles as much as he can, hand scrabbling desperately against blue crystal, until his fingertips barely brush one of the pieces of his bow. Can't manage to get any kind of grip on it, both just a _little_ too far for him to grasp and the blue crystal too slippery, just before the pressure on his back slackens, foot briefly settling back on the floor, giving him just enough time to try to grab for it. And then an enormous hand is tangling in his hair, slamming his head against the cold crystal floor hard enough that he's seeing stars, dizziness rushing over him. 

"Struggle as much as you like," still bored, still imperious, still very much the tone of a man used to ruling over everything he surveys, to imposing his will no matter what. "It will come to nothing in the end." 

G'raha tries to push himself up but can't move, between the hand in his hair and the large body bending over him, and dread crackles up his spine, cold and chill. "And I will enjoy _every moment_ of it." 

Xande slams his head against the floor, again, and this time - this time - G'raha almost passes out, as a wave of dizziness drowning-deep flows over him. Heavy hands settle on his body and dimly, _dimly,_ he can hear the sound of cloth tearing, followed by the slow screech of metal buckling and cloth tearing again. Awareness filters back, slowly: the first thing he registers out of the corner of his hazy vision, even before the fact that his clothes have been mostly torn off him and that all he's left in are his necklace, gloves, boots, and what little of his pants that remained, tucked into his boots, truly sinks in, along with the long-dead emperor's _immediate_ intention for him, is that Xande is holding his aetherometer in his hands, examining it as dispassionately as he has looked at anything else, dissecting with his gaze. 

"Such a primitive device," the long-dead, long-resurrected first emperor of ancient Allag mutters: G'raha scrabbles to try to grab it back, even with his head still spinning, and Xande casually backhands him back down to the ground hard enough to knock him dizzy again, just before he throws it somewhere else in the throne room, somewhere off to the side. It's faint comfort that he can't hear it break, that it may still be intact, given both the situation and the fact that he has no idea where it ended up. The pang of loss is sharp and cold even through his dizziness and the rapidly rising fear and dread crackling up his spine: he'd treasured it almost as much as his books and tomestones, and certainly more than he values himself. "That _you_ have no need of any further." 

G'raha can't manage to sit up, not really, though he hisses and tries, vainly, to struggle upright again, too dizzy to even get very far even before Xande's heavy weight on his back presses him down again into the cold crystal floor, even colder against his mostly-bare skin. Resists the entire way, as much as he can, refuses to spread his legs and open his slender thighs - refusals that mean nothing in the face of the First Emperor of Allag's overwhelming might, when he simply wrenches G'raha's thighs open as easily as if he was a doll and all his lean, honed strength means nothing. 

"Keep resisting, _kitten."_ Xande says, into G'raha's ear, voice empty as ever save for _lust,_ and G'raha can't help but think about how many other captive Miqo'te had been in this same position over all the years of Xande's two reigns. Pain on the margins, if recorded at all. "And I'll enjoy you even more." 

One massive finger, barely slick with oil, forces its way inside him, slowly, relentlessly, despite his body's resistance, and G'raha gasps in pain, unable to bite down the sound. Tries not to think about how very little experience he's had, too single-minded to really experiment much when he'd been studying in Sharlayan, always assuming he'd have time later to indulge his body's desires, to choose. Tries not to think _(and thinks about anyway)_ about Mihata's careful, big hands and the two fingers he'd barely managed to get inside him with gentle coaxing and a lot of oil, too small and inexperienced and tight to take more yet without a lot more work and a lot more oil and a lot more time unless he forced the issue. Tries not to remember but remembers, regardless. 

_(if he had known what was going to happen to him, he would have experimented earlier or encouraged Mihata past his too-careful gentleness. he would rather have had the choice, a choice, than still have been a virgin when forced into an ancient tyrant's bed-)_

One is already much too big: two is even more so, spread much too wide, and G'raha tries vainly to squirm away, even more tight and tense with his resistance. He almost can't take it, already much too full, but Xande forces a third finger in anyway, too much, and while he tries, he can't bite down the pained little whimper, shuddering and clenching around the much-too-large, too-many fingers in him. He can't possibly get away, no matter how much he tries, how much he struggles, pinned and held fast, and the evidence of just how _much_ Xande is enjoying him trying and failing to fight back is pressed against him, with only cloth between them. Fucks him with his fingers, a promise of what he's about to do with his cock, and _gods_ , it hurts, filled and forced open. 

Soon enough, the ancient emperor grows bored of this. It's not even a moment's reprieve when he pulls his fingers out of him, even rougher than he'd forced them in in the first place, and G'raha can't bite down the pained little noise he makes, just before his legs are shoved apart as widely as they will go. Cloth rustles and the entirely too brief sound of flesh stroking flesh, before Xande presses against him and shoves into him, rough and relentless. Three of Xande's massive fingers had been more than too much, filled and spread entirely too far, but three of his fingers were nothing compared to his cock, impossibly thick and barely slick with oil and G'raha can't breathe from the sheer overwhelming agony, doesn't have enough breath to shriek or sob, his hands clawing helplessly at the cold crystal floor as he vainly tries to resist, tries to twist away even though he can't go anywhere, trapped by the ancient emperor's far greater weight and strength, tenses and tightens. 

What little resistance G'raha can offer means nothing to a conqueror who once held sway over the entire world. Xande brutally forces himself into him ilm by ilm, forces his body to yield, stretched unbearably open without enough oil _(there isn't enough oil)_ , and he can't hold onto any thoughts, too dizzy with overwhelming pain. Forces him to yield and take all of him, even when it seems impossible for his small body to take any more, ilm by ilm by ilm and it goes on and on and on and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts, stretched impossibly wide, until at last, Xande buries himself all the way inside him but doesn't stop, doesn't pause, sets an even more brutal pace. Dimly, G'raha's aware of the cold blue crystal beneath him and beyond his sight, the sound of the ever-present, ever-flowing water in the throne room, the throne itself that he knows is there and tries not to look at, Xande's low grunts in his ear as he brutalizes him, impossibly rough, and even more distant, the sound of his own voice, quietly sobbing in pain, and the trickle of blood down the inside of his thigh. 

_(If Xande had desired to make this easier, it could very easily have been done. Could have forced G'raha to swallow an aphrodisiac, or made use of whatever toys one of his decadent descendants had surely constructed with all the ingenuity ancient Allag could bring to bear, simply left him to the mercy of a machine, or both, forced artificial desire and unwanted, false pleasure on him until he was begging to be raped. Any of his decadent descendants might have done so, were they in his place now. But he, a conqueror through and through, only desired the pleasure of violent conquest, whether unwilling lands or on the bodies of unwilling Miqo'te, and the only pleasure here would be his own)_

Again and again and again and again until everything narrows to the heat and weight of Xande's body over G'raha's and the cold crystal beneath him, the raw aching agony as he's filled far too much and far too deep, the sound of cloth against flesh, flesh against flesh. Again and again and again and again, overwhelming pain and fullness, dizziness dancing at the edge of his vision but the merciful escape of unconsciousness was not granted him. Again and again and again and again until Xande groans in his ear, grip tightening on one narrow hip, and shoves back all the way into him, makes G'raha take him all as he buries himself all the way inside him and comes. 

For half a moment, G'raha almost believes that Xande is done with him, at least for the moment, but that faint hope is dashed a moment later when enormous hands tighten their grip on his hips, more than tight enough to bruise, just before the ancient emperor casually teleports them both across the intervening space to the massive crystal throne. G'raha only has just enough time to realize where he is, briefly disoriented and still dizzy from his head being slammed into the floor repeatedly before Xande easily lifts him off his feet and half-pins, half-bends him over an outcropping of crystal, his feet dangling helplessly well above touching the floor. There's not much he _can_ do to struggle - entirely outmatched in strength, too dizzy to move his head more than a little without the room spinning violently, and Xande didn't even bother to withdraw- but he tries desperately anyway, clawing futilely at the crystal, just before he's shoved even more harshly against it, a weak little sob torn from his lips. 

"You'll learn, kitten." Xande mutters, bent over him just enough so that his lips are pressed against one ear and G'raha's heart is beating even faster in his chest from sheer pain and terror, just before he begins to move again, harsh and entirely too deep, too hard, too much. "Just what you were made for." 

_(How many other captive Miqo'te had he done this to, caged between his body and the unyielding crystal of the throne, his seat of rule, put on display while he raped them, as an object lesson, unrecorded, unremembered -)_

It's a little easier, this time, at first, slick as G'raha is with Xande's seed, but only a little, and it makes so little difference that it doesn't matter. Xande takes his pleasure brutal and implacable, his thrusts unrelenting, and he can't even really get the leverage to try to kick him, however useless it would be to even try. Instead, all he can do is sob in pain into the crystal, little broken noises, his tears and the soft sound of his voice lost in the sound of what is being done to him and the ever-flowing stream in the throne room, slender thighs trembling helplessly, tail lashing, as he's filled, again and again. Pinned and filled and stretched open much too far, already sore with the prior hard use and taken so roughly that he's not certain that he won't break, again and again and again-

_(the only thing he can be thankful for is that there is no court, now, none, just the two of them and the memory of the unremembered dead-)_

There's nowhere for him to go and nothing that he can do. All he can do is endure, endure, endure, while the ancient emperor takes his pleasure with his unwilling body, sates himself on forcing himself past every ounce of his resistance, endure while Xande digs even more bruises into his hips, and groans into his ear as he finally comes. Held and pinned against the crystal even afterwards, Xande clearly enjoying his body for as long as he cares to, before finally withdrawing, letting G'raha fall to the crystal just beside his seat. The impact is jarring and painful, especially to his more-than-sore body - and he can't hold back the soft cry of pain - but the moment of reprieve is more than welcome, and G'raha curls in on himself as best he can, even if only for a moment, unsure of how long he can even manage to remain conscious with the way that his vision swims, gray static creeping up the edges of his sight. Dimly, he's aware of seed and blood trickling down his thighs, the inside of his legs, but no more than that. 

The light of healing magic, colder than the heart of Mor Dhona's winter and brilliant blue, ancient and thrumming like the Tower itself, washes over him. _Oh,_ G'raha thinks, dazed, remembering what he'd read during his studies, bitter remembrance given everything he has been through and will go through, _Of course he wouldn't want to break his toy just yet_ , and passes out. 

II. 

For much of the Allagan Empire, official accounts and histories were careful in what they wrote about Emperor Xande, even long after his death and in the reigns of his successors, lest they run afoul of the dignity of the throne. Even in matters that were relatively openly known among the court, such as his taste for captive Miqo'te as part of his harem, _details_ were circumscribed and discreet unless in private diaries and the like, if mentioned at all: it wasn't until _after_ Xande had died that even novels with enough true details filed off for plausible deniability could be published openly, though there was a fairly thriving trade in black market books that transgressed against the rule. By the late Allagan period, however, in the years leading to the fall of the empire, the rule - and custom - had been relaxed, both because the resurrected Xande hadn't _cared_ , too busy conquering Meracydia and stamping out rebellions against his second reign, and because angry dissidents wrote quite a lot, though much was lost in the Fourth Calamity. 

Once, for one of his classes, G'raha had written a paper about the Miqo'te who had been part of the imperial harem, reading against the grain in every source he could find in order to put the pieces together. While he was always an academic iconoclast, the obnoxious outsider who had come to Sharlayan with nothing but stubborn determination and passed-down stories about ancient Allag and outdone everyone in his field, he hadn't yet entirely understood the rules, unwritten and written, that he was flouting. His professor had demanded that he rewrite it: he, young enough that he hadn't yet shed his Ilsabardian accent in favor of the Sharlayan one, had dug his heels in stubbornly and refused. He hadn't yet understood the ways Sharlayan scholars wrote history, even as he chafed _(and continues to chafe)_ at the hierarchy, at how Sharlayan gathers knowledge but remains aloof and apart from the struggles of the world, inked his alignment with Louisoix Leveilleur's philosophy on how to use knowledge across his skin. 

But their approach to writing history befits their apolitical stance as observers, and it was ultimately how he was trained, even though he had long ago made his choice on what side he falls on, in how to use knowledge, and only ever emphasized his technical status as "observer" to ruffle Rammbroes's feathers. To write the history of the mighty and the strong-willed, of the heroes who drive the course of events, rather than the marginalized at the edges, in the margins, unrecorded, unremembered. _It is those with an unyielding will who define the course of history._ G'raha's own words haunt him but it is still yet a comfort to know that when he writes of Emperor Xande's second death and the hero who will put him in the grave for the second and last time that he himself will be almost nowhere in those pages, a footnote at best, if there at all. He is no hero, no matter how he longed to be one, no one to be remembered, and what he suffers here will also be forgotten. 

~~~

None of his clothes were new by the time he got them and didn't quite fit right, all secondhand at best and more third-and-fourth hand, but G'raha misses them anyway, all torn off his body and destroyed, even his hair tie and hairpins. He isn't given anything to replace them for some time, naked except for his unbound hair - a sharp reminder of his current status, he guesses, and he isn't allowed to curl in on himself to even preserve a semblance of modesty when he's in Xande's company. Not that it really matters at the moment, when the only other person he sees is his rapist, but having a choice - _any_ choice - is better than nothing. Even if there is nowhere for him to go save where the ancient emperor wills. Sometimes dragged between the emperor's bedroom and the throne room as the man's whim strikes him, but usually just kept in his bedroom, now. 

Like much of the rest of the Crystal Tower, the emperor's bedroom is all blue crystal and gold, but ornate beyond all reason. Xande eschews most of the obvious metal and technomagical trappings associated with Allagan furniture: instead, his furniture is all the same over-ornate blue crystal and gold style as his throne, impressive to look at but uncomfortable at _best_ to sit on, lie on, be pressed down into by a much larger and heavier man, or be bent over. The windows remain firmly closed, only able to be opened by someone with sufficient royal blood and the proper permissions to operate any of the Tower's functions - and Xande, at least for the moment, is not interested in looking out at the world that he wishes to throw into the Void _(or possibly reconquer)._ Similarly, his books and tomestones are under the same royal blood lock-and-key - and most likely with the _most_ restricted permissions. 

_(another hurt, layered with everything he has already suffered: he has bent the entire arc of his life entirely around ancient Allag and the Crystal Tower, had been so close to it all this time without being able to go in. And now that he is trapped here, he can't even explore, can't even read-)_

G'raha had, over the course of his studies, learned how to fluently read all the extant language stages of ancient Allagan: whatever strange insight or knowledge his eye had inconsistently given him had helped, but all his effort was his own. _Speaking_ Allagan, on the other hand, was not something he had ever really learned to do before the Crystal Tower expedition, at least not to a level anywhere near fluency: no one, save for Unei and Doga, had spoken Allagan in years far beyond living memory, five thousand years since the Allagan Empire fell, and while he'd managed to work out some semblance of pronunciation between ancient dictionaries, the songs his family had passed down, and whatever fragments of... _something..._ his Eye kept giving him, it still wasn't really _speaking_. The two clones had helped him a bit with pronunciation and some language practice before they'd gone with Mihata into Syrcus Tower for the first time, but there wasn't time for more than that. 

He doesn't have the power of the Echo like Mihata or Krile: he cannot see into the souls and hearts of others _(not that he would_ want _to see into Xande's heart)_ , cannot comprehend every spoken language or make himself be understood. G'raha can understand Xande because Allagan is a station-based language, the forms a speaker or writer used shifting based on their station and who they were addressing or writing for, and the forms used by the reigning emperor -no matter the stage of the language, whether in text or spoken- are straightforward, the most direct and arguably the most simple. The emperor has the privilege of speaking directly and forcefully, unequivocal in everything : it is those below him who must be circumspect, equivocal, indirect - and the language of conquerors is universal. 

_(Garlemald had mostly left his tribe alone. 'Savage', independent cultures within their rule would normally have garnered attention and scorn, additional effort to crush them underfoot and take their territory as with the M tribe in Gyr Abania, but his tribe's territory in Ilsabard is cold and a poor prize to focus much attention on when richer ones they deemed more worth their attention lay south. But occasionally, soldiers would come to their village, when he was still a bullied, unwanted child living with them, hidden while the imperials were there so he wouldn't be noticed and the wrong questions about why one of their children had an Allagan-red eye wouldn't be asked._

_He remembers, afterward, even years later, the tears and the way things were talked around-)_

G'raha usually likes to be talkative, but he understands the value of silence - and that there is no use in trying to speak. Even if Xande _could_ understand any of the languages that he speaks, he wouldn't hear anything he had to say, anyway , wouldn't listen, - so G'raha holds instead to silence, to keep his words for himself. At least, that is his intent: Xande instead grows tired of having a _silent_ unwilling concubine and starts teaching him how to speak the form of the language that his harem used when speaking to him, the most indirect and circumspect possible forms. G'raha pays attention and learns, because as much as he hates this entire situation, it's still _learning_ about ancient Allag, more knowledge that he didn't have before. He doesn't speak, however, holding to his silence, even in the face of the ancient emperor's impatience and simmering rage. 

Until, that is, Xande pulls G'raha into his lap and reaches between his thighs, catching both his soft cock and balls in one enormous hand, grip tightening threateningly until G'raha whimpers in pain that he can't bite back on and immediately goes completely, entirely still, even his tail. "Do you understand, kitten," he says, voice gone dark, and while G'raha is no mage, even he can feel the aether thrumming in Xande's fingers, cold as winter crystal, a looming, clear threat, fear and anxiety spiking high in him, pulse fluttering-fast and his breath catching in his throat. "That you are intact only because I _allow_ you to be. If you _continue_ to displease me, then I will _remove_ these: you don't need them for _my_ pleasure." 

The threat is clear, obvious, and not empty - he's _definitely_ done this before, to others in the same situation that he's now in- and G'raha knows he has to make a choice. He's always been reckless - _stop trying to die for the first righteous cause that comes along, Raha,_ Krile had scolded him on more than one occasion, by letter or in person, _learn to value yourself,_ though he hadn't heeded her advice _-_ but this is a lesson of a different kind. He can continue to hold to silence, but he knows what Xande will take from him this time if he disobeys him. He's already taking from him, piece by piece, and G'raha has endured, can endure, will endure, _(until Mihata recovers, until he can put Xande back into the grave, for good-),_ but there are things he can endure and things he cannot, and- 

Cold lips press against one ear, harshly. "I won't repeat myself again, kitten." Xande says, voice empty as ever save for looming menace. "Do you understand?" 

_Learn to pick your battles, Raha._ _Know which ones you can win - and which you cannot._ More of Krile's advice, when he'd been stubbornly hitting his head against the wall of Sharlayan academic hierarchy and getting nowhere, denied for every turn for funding for various petty reasons from "his personality" to his status as only a resident, rather than a citizen, of Sharlayan, or his ideas and arguments being too cutting-edge, too daring rather than the safe path. He hadn't taken her advice at the time, but he remembers her advice now, and swallows. Knows, even as stubborn and willful as he is, that there is no getting out of this, that his choices are few, that - 

And for the first time in his life, G'raha closes his eyes and trembles as he gives in. Stumbles over the proper forms, but the oppressive sensation of thrumming aether hanging over him immediately fades, though Xande doesn't relax his threatening grip for a moment or two longer - a very clear reminder of what he could still do, before finally, finally, letting go, though that hand shifts to rest on his thigh. Slowly, reluctantly, G'raha keeps his eyes closed and wavers over the proper forms, but _knows_ the emperor expects to be thanked for his "generosity" in not mutilating him. Opens his eyes once he's done talking _(pleading, placating)_ and his anger coils deep inside him. 

"Get on your knees and thank me properly," Xande commands, as he pushes him off his lap to the floor. G'raha closes his eyes - again - for a moment as he hears the familiar rustle as Xande unfastens his pants and gracefully settles on his knees in front of him, leans forward to wrap his lips as best as he can around the head of the man's cock _(which is about all he can manage to get in his mouth)_ \- and his best is not very well. Between his small mouth, the fact that Xande is much too big, much too thick,and the fact that he had only sucked cock once, ever, before...everything, he's clumsy, though he's at _least_ learned to keep his teeth out of the way, despite how much he's still tempted to bite. _(He's learned better.)_

The taste of salt and flesh on his tongue as he licks, awkwardly, and tries not to remember the first time he'd ever sucked cock. Tries not to think of Mihata's gentleness or the fingers wound carefully in his tied-back hair, so different from the hand tangled in his unbound hair, yanking painfully. Tries not to think about it, tries not to remember, how it had been with Mihata, but does, anyway: he'd been even _worse_ at sucking cock with him, though G'raha had wanted to learn how to be good at it, for him, but Mihata had been gentle and encouraging, even when he'd accidentally scraped him with his teeth. This is nothing like that: he isn't skilled at sucking Xande's cock and wouldn't _want_ to be, even if it was at all physically possible - and the ancient emperor doesn't _care_ about skill or finesse. 

One enormous hand settles on the back of G'raha's head and holds him there, doesn't let him up. Tries to push him down, tries to make him take more in even though it's impossible, mouth already stretched to its limit around what he could manage to take in _(entirely too aware of how much his jaw already aches, how much his eyes water)_ , and G'raha chokes, has a hard time catching his breath. Like everything else, overwhelming force - and the cruelty - is what Xande takes his pleasure in, and he _makes_ G'raha take everything that he can, doesn't let him use his hands at first, is content to watch him struggle and choke on his cock for quite a while, until at last even he grows bored with this and _allows_ G'raha to use his hands.

G'raha's hands are small and slender, and he has to use both: he can't even manage to get _one_ hand around Xande's cock, the size difference between them is too stark _(he remembers , mind drifting, that Amon, when using Allagan cloning technology to restore Xande to life, had used a formula synthesized from the growth power of Sephirot, the Fiend, on his new body, and-)._ His fingers, normally so graceful, are clumsy here, too, as he tries to stroke - and he knows that the ancient emperor can feel the bowstring calluses on his fingers, from long hours practicing his archery, and _knows_ perfectly well that the man enjoys that even more. Even able to use his hands in addition to his mouth it still takes _a while_ to satisfy Xande: massive fingers tangle even further in his hair and holds G'raha down when he comes, holds him down and makes him swallow _all_ his seed and doesn't care how he chokes and coughs. Doesn't let him up until he licks him clean, but forces him to remain on his knees with a heavy hand in his hair. 

"You're learning, kitten." Xande says, roughly running his fingers through red hair, and G'raha hates every moment of it. "You'll learn to take _everything_ I give you."

\---

Most of the time, Xande is content with simple, overwhelming force and roughness, to casually overpower what physical resistance G'raha is capable of making, but sometimes, the ancient emperor wants to force his submission by other means. Currently, he's tied to the bed, wrists bound over his head - tugging futilely at the bonds, glowing blue and humming against his skin - and his legs spread as wide as they will go, knees pushed up and ankles also secured against all struggling, body entirely open. Xande kneels between his thighs and roughly presses one massive, oil-slick finger inside him: G'raha bites down a gasp of pain , tries to squirm away instinctively, tries to struggle as much as he can as his tail lashes, but there's nowhere to go, bound and spread, entirely open for the taking. Then a second - slow, relentless as the tide, demanding - and a third, forcing past his tenseness, his resistance. Too much. Always too much. It doesn't matter how many times he's raped, it doesn't stop hurting, it's not something he can get used to. 

When Xande takes him even more roughly with his fingers, works him open around them, an implacable, inexorable echo of what he's about to do with his cock, G'raha can't bite down the gasp of pain. Entirely too full, knows what's coming next is even worse, but gasps and wiggles and clenches anyway, especially once Xande harshly pulls his tail, tightens down around his fingers. He expects him to grow bored of this soon enough - as Xande has, every other time before - but he doesn't. It _hurts_ all over again, pain bright against his nerves as he squirms, vainly, can't get away from his hand, those fingers- 

"Beg for me to take you, kitten. _Properly._ " the emperor demands: G'raha is silent, at first, and then yelps as the fingers inside him twist cruelly, slow and painful. And again. And again until he's half-sobbing in pain, before a fourth finger presses threateningly against him. " _Beg."_ His intentions are clear: either G'raha would beg for his cock, or he would force him to take his whole hand. And G'raha _knows_ , already in pain, which would be worse. Knows which would be worse and makes his choice-

Closes his eyes and begs and hates every moment of this, hates himself for giving in. Xande at least seems to be satisfied with this: a moment later, he even _more_ roughly pulls his fingers out, leaves G'raha empty only just long enough to unfasten his pants and slick himself, and then he's pushing into him. Rough and relentless and inescapable, forces G'raha to yield ilm by ilm, body far too small to take him without pain, without being _made_ to, and the ancient emperor _makes_ him. His fingers tangle helplessly in the sheets as he's taken, again and again and again, and drifts, for a moment, thinking of languages. 

The various forms of ancient Allagan were context-based languages, highly dependent on the station of the speaker - or writer - and their status in comparison to who they were addressing. The captive Miqo'te members of Xande's harem had the lowest status of all, even lower than their fellows who were instead conscripted as technicians and soldiers, and their speech reflects it: G'raha has always been a quick study and he soaks up anything to do with ancient Allag like a sponge, even if he doesn't want to _use_ what he's learning in the way that's expected of him, in the way Xande demands.

_(But he has no choice. he knows this and hates it-)_

There is no word to refuse, in the register he is expected to speak in. Half a hundred ways and more to degrade and debase himself - to beg to be taken, to beg for his rapist to come inside him, to be beg allowed to suck his cock and swallow his seed - but the vocabulary for refusal, even one that will not be listened to, does not exist. And why would it, when the members of Xande's harem weren't given the _right_ to refuse? Half a hundred ways more to lower themselves, to placate those of higher station, phrases that ground into their very bones their purpose. There's more he's not learning, he's certain, obviously more than this - and while the part of him that soaks up Allagan knowledge like a sponge, craves whatever information he can manage to get, is disappointed, because he might as well learn something while he's trapped here, it's at least less that can be used to hurt him. 

_(Whatever ways the captive Miqo'te in the various imperial harems had devised to speak among themselves, to subvert the language allowed them by their captors, slipping in words or phrases in their own mother tongues or speaking entirely in the languages forbidden them when they couldn't be heard, had died with them either during the Fourth Calamity or afterwards, if any of them had survived the fall of the empire and simply disappeared into the world, free at last to make their own way, never written down or recorded, kept as entirely to themselves as they could manage. There is nothing that he can learn and at least no one else trapped here to have to devise such a thing, G'raha can at least be grateful for that much, that he is the only one now who has to endure this-)_

A particularly brutal thrust forces him aware of his body again, stretched entirely too open, entirely too wide and too far, the way his bound hands ache and the feel of the bed-linens tangled around his fingers. He's not certain how long he was drifting, thinking of languages as his body was being used, but he can feel how sore he is. G'raha can also tell that Xande doesn't seem to be anywhere near done and tries to close his eyes and just...wait...but he can't manage to drift, again, can't even distance himself from this. Can guess where this is going, given the emperor's earlier demand, and waits, simply waits, hands tangling more in the sheets, for Xande to inevitably demand that he beg for him to come, too. 

_(He does, of course.)_

G'raha hates the way his voice sounds, trembling, stumbling over the proper forms, but at least it's enough for Xande to be satisfied, takes his pleasure even more rough and hard and spills his seed inside him with a low groan. Doesn't get off him right away, of course, more than content to enjoy his body for as long as he cares to, and G'raha's eyes drift towards the ceiling, much too high for him to make out, especially in the dark room, but is almost assuredly blue crystal as well. 

_(All he has to do is endure, endure until Mihata recovers, recovers and can put Xande back into the grave for the second and last time. However long that takes, no matter what is done to him, all he has to do is endure-)_

~~~

Xande dresses him in blue and gold, slender wrists and ankles weighed down by half and more again a prince's ransom in gold jewelry. Delicate but impossibly strong chains, ringing discordantly when he moves and none of it anything he would ever wear _(he can identify the period of each piece, put them into context with other known artifacts, and does, to give his mind something to fix on besides the pain as he's being raped, slim thighs forced open impossibly wide around the width of Xande's hips, and the discordant ringing in rhythm)._ The worst is a delicate blue-crystal and gold collar around his neck, completely seamless and clearly originally made for someone about his size and build _(how many Miqo'te, nameless and forgotten, came before him, here?)_ and no matter how he tries to pull at it, futilely - desperately, angrily- to get it off, rage and shame creeping up his spine, it won't move an ilm. It won't break or shatter, despite its seeming delicacy, no matter how much force he exerts, just sits wrapped around his throat like he's a - _possession._

 _(that's exactly what the ancient emperor sees him as. a possession. a toy. something to use and break as he wants, as was his right as conqueror over the conquered. chills run up his spine just realizing_ _all over again_ -) 

The clothes themselves are nearly as bad as the...jewelry. Even Thavnairian dancing silks are _modest_ next to this dress, and while G'raha had never precisely cared about _modesty_ between his favorite outfit having been a sleeveless shirt and tight pants and his inability to sit properly in any kind of chair during his years as a student meaning that his long skirt was constantly riding up his thighs, being naked was less revealing than this. The sleeveless dress is barely more than draped strips of sheer blue cloth, translucent against his skin, _technically_ long but the skirt (such as it is) is slit up the sides: an Allagan appropriation and debasement of what had been a Meracydian ritual garment. 

The ancient emperor's cold hands are all over him as Xande arranges the fabric to his liking, stands G'raha in front of a large mirror and makes him watch the process. So he can do it correctly himself later, he's certain, and feels vaguely ill. Especially once the thin silk is properly in place, with nothing underneath it, and another set of delicate, decorative gold chains is wrapped around his waist and fastened into place, emphasizing the curve of his slender hips and the slimness of his waist. He's worn revealing clothing before, of his own choice, but this is entirely _wrong:_ his sleeveless shirts showed his arms and his tight pants clung to his ass and legs, but it had been as much about showing off his lean, honed strength as it was about showing his body in a manner of his choosing. This is _wrong,_ his body put on display solely for the pleasure of another in a way he never would choose, unwillingly chained and unwillingly claimed, and he hates every moment of it. 

His face is almost unrecognizable in the mirror: familiar fine-boned features, yes, his mismatched eyes framed by long lashes are the same shades of blue-green and Allagan red that he's known all his life, but it's been twisted into the unfamiliar. Even the red eye paint he'd favored wearing, one of the traditions he'd kept from his tribe after he'd left, is gone, roughly wiped off, and the _delicate_ crystalline cosmetics on his face, blue outlining his eyes and emphasizing his full lips, are not anything he would have chosen for himself and nothing to do with any Miqo'te tradition, Seeker _or_ Keeper. The expression is all wrong, especially since he'd spent so long cultivating aloof arrogance and bravado and now it's all stripped away. Exhausted and afraid and _vulnerable,_ full mouth trembling in a way that it hasn't done in years, since he had been a bullied, rejected kitten. G'raha hates this, hates every moment of it, but he can't look away, no matter how much he wants to. He looks like...a concubine, an emperor's _pet_ , and it grinds it even worse that he'll have to make himself look like this, that he'll have to dress himself like this, and-

It's even worse once Xande sits on the bed and lifts him into his lap, forces his thighs open as far as they will go, strips of the skirt disarranged to be even more revealing, and traps his wrists behind his back, secured with the first set of chains. G'raha tries to _guess_ what he wants - to make him watch in the mirror as he takes him - but it seems he doesn't quite want that, at least at first. Instead, he reaches out, outside of G'raha's field of vision, and G'raha can vaguely hear the thrum of the Tower working as he...does what? calls something to his hand? And then he sees what it is and swallows, a shudder crackling down his spine, tail lashing. He'd known, from his reading -various diaries, novels, etc - that the Allagans had made sex toys, especially after they'd fallen into decadence in the years after Xande's death, but the surprisingly lurid descriptions hadn't quite prepared him for the unfortunate reality of the blue crystal plug that he's looking at. Blue crystal, large and thick, though not nearly as big as the cock he's been forced to take so often. 

The crystal is cold, pressed against him, and G'raha wants to squirm away but can't, held firm with the enormous arm around his waist. He knows, by now, that being tense will be worse on him, that his resistance will only hurt him more _(that Xande will enjoy forcing him to yield even more-)_ , but he can't help it anyway. Can't bite down the gasp of pain, as it's pushed into him, stretches him open: the plug is smaller than Xande's cock, more the size of his three fingers, but that's still entirely too much, and completely unyielding crystal instead of flesh. Not slick with oil but something else, produced by the toy itself - _(and his mind drifts, trying to think of anything but Allagan ingenuity and the use it's currently being put to. Tries not to to think of Mihata and his gentle suggestion, the one time they'd tried to have sex and G'raha couldn't manage to take anything more than two of the Raen's fingers, that he'd make him a toy. Something to get him used to it. Tries not to think about it and does, anyway._

_Mihata had looked forward to the idea of teaching him how to take his cock - after all, G'raha had taught him so much about Allagan history, he said, eyes bright, and it's his turn now to do the teaching. Of making the toy, of taking him with it ilm by ilm - with lots of oil, he'd said, curling his two fingers inside him, nice and slow, and smiled at how G'raha had moaned in pleasure and arched into it- night after night until he's used to it, make him come again and again until he's nice and relaxed, then making a bigger one and repeating the process until he was finally ready to take his cock -)_

This was nothing like that fantasy Mihata had laid out for him, had wanted. Xande is as brutal with the plug as he is with his hands and his cock, _roughly_ shoves it into G'raha and forces his body to yield, forces him open around it, and dimly, as if from a great distance, he can hear his own voice, quiet little gasps of pain, along with the discordant ringing. Makes him watch in the mirror as he takes him with the toy, spread thighs trembling, tiny hole spread obscenely wide around thick blue crystal, rough and unrelenting, and it _hurts._ Doesn't stop hurting when it's shoved all the way inside him, made to take every ilm of blue crystal. Inescapable pressure both without - his thighs forced open, enormous arm around his waist holding him there - and within, filled with unyielding crystal, stretched open much too wide. It's even worse a moment later, as the toy slowly, excruciatingly rearranges itself inside him and he can't hide the sharp sob of pain. There is no kind of flexibility, no kind of yielding give, and even slick as he is it doesn't help when as it slowly, much too slowly, reshapes itself into something even more impossibly thick inside him, scrapes his already raw, tender flesh even more painfully until he's sobbing in agony, until at last it settles on a shape. 

_(there's functions in the toy that he's certain exist, even if he can only guess at the possibilities: the Allagans, after Xande's first death, had fallen into decadence and depravity, letting ambition fall to the wayside in favor of their pleasures. pleasures taken on and already indulged with the bodies of the colonized. a myriad of violations that they continued to claim as their right as conqueror over the conquered, including forcing unwilling pleasure on their equally unwilling concubines._

_the only thing he can be grateful for, though not a mercy in any sense, is that Xande's tastes for violent subjugation and conquest entirely preclude that as a possibility, means most of those functions will go unused. Xande does not care for anyone else in his bed save him alone to find any semblance of pleasure. he has to endure Xande trying to break him with pain, but he will never have to endure being broken with pleasure-)_

Xande makes a low, satisfied noise, rumbling deep in his throat. "There," he says, and commands, a moment later, implacable undercurrent promising even _more_ pain than usual should he disobey. "Open your eyes, kitten." 

G'raha hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes and opens them, again, but tries to look anywhere but at the mirror at first, until forceful, large fingers slide under his chin and force him to look. To see his reflection in the mirror, unrecognizable as himself between the crystalline blue, delicate makeup, sheer concubine's silks and delicate chains, and the tearstains on his cheeks, full, blue-lacquered lips trembling in fear, vulnerability, and pain. Pinioned on Xande's lap, skirt pushed up and disarrayed to show as much of his thighs as possible, legs pinned and spread wide, body filled up and spread open with the blue crystal plug to keep him ready for the ancient emperor's pleasure at any and every moment that Xande cares to take it. Looks every ilm the Allagan imperial concubine that Xande is forcing him to serve as, to _be_ , his _pet_ , and he feels ill, tail lashing, ears pinned flat to his head. 

"Haven't you learned by now, kitten, what you were made for?" Xande asks, and G'raha, without thinking, hisses. 

_(he was not made for this, not made to be anyone's pet-)_

Xande roughly pulls the plug free, tossing it briefly aside: G'raha yelps in pain, high and sharp, but doesn't have time to do much more than that before Xande is pulling him down onto his oil-slick cock, grip bruising-tight on his hips. Fills him with his cock, even more rough and relentless, and G'raha instinctively tries and fails to squirm away, can't go anywhere, and it _hurts_ almost as much it usually does, even with as slick and open as he already was. Yanks him all the way down his cock, makes him take him all, and holds him there with a firm grip once he's all the way on his cock, has taken everything Xande has forced on - and in - him yet again. Can see himself in the mirror, still, now spread and filled by the ancient emperor's cock instead of the crystal toy and the image is even worse, a reminder that he can't even look away from, and it hurts- 

"You _will_ learn, one way or another." 

_(no, he's not, he wasn't made for this, wasn't made to be anyone's pet, and tries to hold tight to this, with every ounce of stubborn endurance he possesses, will not accept this even as his body remembers-)_

III.

It's difficult to tell time, inside the Tower: only the throne room is open to the sky, and Raha hasn't spent that much time in there. A few hours, here and there, but not enough to be able to keep track of time. Not long enough for Xande to grow bored of trying to break him, yet - but then, part of his mind reminds him, the First Emperor had held the whole world under his dominion, once, had conquered all of it. Trying to break him would be just as ephemeral a pleasure, especially since he's done this with so many other Miqo'te before him, but it's at least a conquest he hasn't _done_ yet. It's not at all a comfort to know this except that the longer he holds out, the longer Mihata has to try to recover, more time. _(doesn't let himself acknowledge the possibility that he died of his wounds-)_

Tries not to think about how exhausted he is, how much he hurts _(it doesn't matter, does it? all he has to do is endure-)._ There's nowhere he can go to get away from this, neither awake or asleep, and he sleeps as little as he can anyway. He'd never liked to sleep normally: there was always something that needed doing, needed reading, mind working on too many parallels at once, and he's used to skipping sleep (and meals) when he's too caught up in research, too obsessed with puzzling something out. But he sleeps even less, here, tries not to sleep, or sleeps as little as he can, when the ancient emperor is in bed with him, even if the man is asleep. 

He slept a little more, though not much more, when Xande still had him sleep at his feet, even though being treated as a pet ground his pride. But then the ancient emperor had decided that he preferred to have him sleep beside him, to have a warm body next to his in order to keep him warm with flesh that had never died. His nihilism hadn't been the only thing that had returned from the dead with him: even in a new, living clone body, the chill of the grave clings, bone-deep. And now Raha tries not to sleep save for the few stolen hours when Xande decides to brood on death and the impermanence of things alone, or when his body just can't go without sleep anymore. 

_(Raha tries not to fall asleep but does, anyway, curled in on himself under the bed. there's nowhere he can go in the Tower that's beyond Xande's notice, nowhere that he can't be found, but this is the closest thing. his sleep is deep but not dreamless. inchoate nightmares, at first, the drowning deep and the silence that swallows all sound. No words, no voice, nothing but cold shadows and a heavy weight over him, on top of him, and he can't breathe, can't scream, can't struggle, as thorns dig into his flesh and discordant, ringing chimes, and he can't get up, pressed down-)_

When he first wakes up, Raha is disoriented, his mind still fogged with sleep, and he can't really register what's happening, vaguely aware of the heavy weight on top of him, vaguely aware of pain and overwhelming fullness and vaguely, vaguely aware of the sound of discordant ringing but is still too out of it to really understand what's happening at first. Pain and fullness and motion, until he comes back to himself enough to realize, even if only a little, what's being done to him. Lying on his back on a bed with a man on top of him, between his legs, all the way in him, though he's still too out of it to entirely realize who and what is going on. Tries, futilely, to pound his fists against a very muscular chest, trying to shove him off him or somehow trying to struggle out from under him, but it's entirely wasted effort, nothing Raha does, no matter how he struggles, nothing seems to even _affect_ or stop him. 

"Keep struggling, kitten," a familiar voice says, sounding very satisfied, and Raha entirely comes back to himself, abruptly (and unfortunately) is fully awake in an instant and remembers where he is and who this man is. Xande must have decided to take his pleasure with him and not bothered to wake him up, just moved him back to the bed while he was still asleep, let him stay asleep _(was he just that exhausted, to remain asleep while Xande took his pleasure?)_ and now he's fully aware of his own body again. Stretched open wide around him, filled to his absolute limits, pinned down on his back, seed trickling down his thighs, and even though he knows, more than knows by now, that trying to struggle won't get him anywhere but even more exhaustion, he tries anyway. 

This time, Xande is content to take his pleasure slow and deep, as rough as ever but thrusts slowly, relentless, implacable, the delicate chains chiming in slow rhythm as he forces every ilm of his cock inside him, makes him take it all. Takes his time, frequently stops to enjoy himself buried all the way inside him, holding still and simply enjoying the warmth of his body, and Raha glances up - and up, and up- past his shoulder, to the blue crystal ceiling above him. His mind drifts, in the darkness, and thinks of other things, of the books he can't read and aches to, memorized texts that he'd committed to memory from years of reading and cross-referencing and writing and more reading, and the sentence he'd left off writing in the report he had been working on before of all this, can even visualize the ink smear on the page when he'd thrown down his pen as he'd stood up, fear crackling down his spine. _(has someone, anyone, recopied the page, in the intervening time, however long it's been? he hopes someone has. maybe Rammbroes.)_ Tries not to think of Mihata and his gentleness and how much he might have wanted this with him and thinks about it, anyway, even as it aches, hurts, in an entirely different way than how his body hurts all the time now. 

Eventually, the ancient emperor stills over him, spills again inside him, but doesn't withdraw, just stays buried all the way inside him. Raha just closes his eyes and drifts: Xande will be done with him, this time, whenever he's done with him, and isn't demanding that he be entirely aware of his body and what he's doing to him at the moment. And so he's not. Thinks of other things, more pleasant things, like words and intellectual puzzles and history, in that space where he can't be touched. His mind is his own: his body is not. 

_(there is so little that is his. not his body, which isn't his, a lesson he learned early, here. just a beautiful shell for others to desire, to use. a vessel for their lust, a vessel for their pleasure. can he really call it his body any longer?)_

Dimly, he can hear the soft, discordant ringing of the chains in rhythm as he's thrust into, thinks he's crying, soft gasps of pain that he's never managed to get used to no matter how much he's taken, how much he's raped, but can't quite tell. Even the sound of his own voice isn't quite familiar like this, it's almost like listening from underwater, at a great distance. 

_(can he really?_

_who truly owns this body, this shell? the person who lives in it, or the man who does what he wants with it?)_

~~~

A liking for dramatics does not an actor make: Raha had discovered _that_ fact during his student days, especially the fact that he wasn't exactly a very versatile actor. There were roles he could play, if his entire heart was in them and he could manage to sell the audience on his sincerity - and other roles he could not. Villains, for example: he's not any good at playing them, though he'd tried reading a villain role once or twice, and had reluctantly conceded _(even if only to himself)_ that it would take about a hundred years of preparation before he could even make a reasonably decent try at it. He's not much better at sweet, innocent ingenue roles, either: he'd only been stuck with them a few times, but 'a few times' was a few times too many. 

_(but there's some acting which he will never be able to sell, no matter how much he tries-)_

Xande isn't particularly interested in the arts and has no special interest in the theater _(unlike Solus zos Galvus, the Emperor of Garlemald, who is known for his love of the arts and drama) ._ His demand this time - that Raha _pretend_ that he's enjoying what's done to him, with one enormous hand wrapped around his throat and squeezing, warningly, tighter and tighter, until he gives in, gasping for breath when he's allowed to breathe again - isn't about the quality of the acting, it's about the imposition of his will. The humiliation. 

_(at least he doesn't have to look at him or Raha wouldn't have been able to do this at all, not even stumbling over his words-)_

Raha can't convincingly pretend like he's enjoying himself: it's never stopped hurting and Xande makes absolutely certain that there is nothing even approaching pleasure for him, here, even forced pleasure. Another man, with more finesse, whose tastes were far less about forceful domination and absolute imposition of will, might have figured out where his tastes lay and taken advantage of it and forced pleasure on him. It could have been so close, given how so much of what has been done to him could have been something he enjoyed if it had been something he had chosen, something he had wanted, or even with someone who cared to know how to manipulate his body against his mind. _(and it's awful that he's grateful that this wasn't the case, that this is bad but it could have been so much worse-)_ The roughness, the size difference, being entirely overwhelmed, even being dressed up and used primarily for someone else's pleasure: tries not to think about Mihata, but does, anyway. 

_(Tries not to think about the fraught, guilty fantasies of his adolescent student days, torn between the historical reality of the Allagan harem, of generational trauma and the multiple-millennia-old stories talked around by his family and knowing, even as a teenager, what the reality of it would have been for him and the idea of it, of being a thing valued, a thing desired and the helplessness inherent in that position, of having his decisions taken from him, that so fascinated him. Tries not to think about or remember, because the reality of being in that position is far worse than even what he had known at the time-)_

The noises Raha makes as Xande roughly thrusts into him, barely oil-slick - it's not enough, even with him already slick from the toy, never enough, but worse than usual- are soft and pained, barely more than exhaled breath, mostly drowned out by the discordant ringing of the chains. Tries to imitate little gasps of pleasure, the sounds he'd made when Mihata had taken him with his fingers, and doesn't even come close. Moans as he's filled all the way, as Xande buries himself all the way inside him, tries not to sound like he's crying and it still sounds like a choked sob as he shudders and clenches around the cock stretching him open. Arches his back and tries _(badly)_ to wiggle back to meet those awful, brutal thrusts, trembles on his hands and knees and hides his face behind his unbound red hair and in the bed-linens, tries to pretend as though he's trembling in pleasure rather than in pain and fear, though the tension in his back and shoulders gives it entirely away even just on a cursory level. His acting is _awful_ and he knows it and shame and anger burn through him at having to do this _(How do people who fake finding their own pleasure in bed even manage it once, much less regularly? He's at least lucky that he doesn't have to do this regularly)._

"You'll never make a player, kitten." Xande comments, dispassionately, as he pushes back into him even harder and at a particular angle which wrings an even more pained little gasp from Raha, which he tries _(and fails)_ to make sound like a sigh of pleasure instead. Instead, he wiggles a bit more and tightens down on the cock inside him, even though it hurts to do so, and hopes beyond hope that the ancient emperor will be done soon: of course, he isn't, takes his time, as he always does. Gasps and trembles and hurts as he's taken and hates every moment of this, tail lashing, ears pinned flat against his head, even as he tries and fails to make it seem like he's actually enjoying himself while he's in agony, blood trickling down his thigh. He _can't,_ can't be convincing on any level, can't do this, but has to do it anyway-

 _(It's not the acting Xande takes pleasure in. It's his humiliation and the fact that he can force Raha to do this, something he absolutely would not want to do. the imposition of his will-)_

Finally - finally, _finally-_ Xande takes his pleasure, enormous hands digging even more bruises into Raha's perpetually-bruised hips as he comes, spilling inside him, and Raha makes one last noise, quiet little gasp, and tightens down on him. Afterwards, the ancient emperor doesn't bother to get off him, even after he finally pulled out of him: instead, as usual, Raha is crushed beneath the other man's much-more-considerable weight, forcing him off his knees to lie flat under him. Can't move, pinned and crushed, beneath him and there's nowhere to go but just lie there, feeling seed trickle down the inside of his thighs, and stares, instead, at the crystal floor, and tries not to cry, closing his eyes tightly, buries his face again in the bed-linens.

 _(He can endure this. He can, he can, he will-)_

~~~

For all the sorcerous and technological might of the Allagans, they were still mortal flesh: they could still die and still had to eat, though whatever genetic enhancements and modifications they made to themselves ensured that they had to do so far less often than their subject populations. Whatever food that was in the Tower had been suspended in time with the rest of it, long-ago prepared and preserved. Even the necessity of eating, however, was not regular enough to serve as a way to keep track of time: Xande, alive in a clone body enhanced by the power of the Fiend, did not have to eat anywhere near as regularly as he would have were he still in the body that he was born and died in originally, especially with whatever help the Tower could provide him, there. 

Raha is not anything of the sort: he still needs to eat regularly, though he forgets, too, given that he doesn't feel hungry anymore and...hasn't since this started. He's already had terrible eating habits: forgetting to eat unless reminded, skipping meals to work more on research or because he didn't have the money for food, having spent it all on books or tomestones, but his appetite has only grown worse. Should he be hungry by now? Yes. Is he? No, and even if he was, it didn't matter: even having _access_ to food was dependent on Xande. So it's better this way, and he doesn't want to eat, anyway: his body isn't his own, but not eating is a way to assert some semblance of control over it, even if it isn't his. 

_(so he doesn't say anything about needing to eat, will not beg, will not ask, for his needs. ignores the lightheadedness and the blackness creeping up on his vision. except, he forgets something-)_

Xande wants to break him, but he doesn't want to break him _just yet:_ the ancient emperor keeps healing him regularly, after each...session, because breaking his toy's body instead of his mind wouldn't be _satisfying_. It's not quite a surprise then - if unfortunate- after Raha faints while he's being raped, while he's sitting on his lap, that the man doesn't just let it go unaddressed. Comes back around to find himself still on Xande's lap, an enormous arm wrapped around his waist to hold him there and with fingers in his hair. 

_(Of course Xande had forgotten about his need for food, but won't be so lax again. And of course he already knows how he'll make Raha eat: how many unwilling, stubborn concubines did he have that refused to eat, over the years?)_

___

Xande feeds him tidbits off his plate, while Raha is kneeling at his feet: _very_ much like a pet and his tail lashes, ears pressed flat against his head. He doesn't _want_ to eat any of it, can't even have _that_ little control over his-not-his body, but knows that if he doesn't eat on his own, Xande will force him. A choice that is not actually a choice, in the end, but choosing to do what he doesn't want to do spares him worse, and Raha _hates_ it, hates every moment of it, but lowers his eyes and hates that he makes that choice. 

_(Learn to pick your battles, Raha,_ _Krile's advice echoes in his head. Know which ones you can win - and which you cannot.)_

He tries to think about other things than the absolute indignity of being hand-fed tidbits and delicacies like some prized kitten. He's read Allagan-era cookbooks, of course he has, though even he never really had the desire to try to recreate any of the recipes: maybe he would have during his student days, if he'd been able to have access to any of the ingredients _(whether they still existed or some kind of scholarly-researched substitution)_ without having to deal with the Sharlayan attitude towards eating. How could one study culinary history and cookery and _not_ actually taste any of what was made? There were only so many insights one could have from simply making the food and not tasting it. This is unfortunately an opportunity to learn something about Allagan culture that could not be learned from any extant texts or books, which is why he's actually tasting what he's fed, unfamiliar spices on his tongue, instead of simply swallowing it. Remnants of a world that had ended five thousand years ago. 

_(Empires steal from their colonies: culture, food, resources, lives, their freedom, and the Allagan Empire had the entire world under its sway. On his tongue are reminders of what Allag had stolen and made their own, with their might and their ingenuity bent to the purpose of conquest-)_

Last of all, Xande, entirely ungently, presses sticky fingers to his lips, dripping with some golden substance, and Raha reluctantly parts his lips to take them in, mouth stretched open wide around the three digits and tries his best not to choke. Even more reluctantly, he sucks whatever it is off the man's fingers. Sweet, sticky, golden - honey? It's not quite like the honey he's eaten before, bees fed on unfamiliar flowers and trees five thousand years dead and gone. Swallows around those fingers and lowers his eyes to the crystal floor as he licks them clean with delicate swipes of his tongue, thorough and careful. 

_(Raha would rather starve than go through this again. Unfortunately, he knows that he has no choice-)_

~~~

Raha was still a child, still very much in his kittenhood, when he went to study in Sharlayan: small, mouthy, and with entirely too much to prove and a chip on his shoulder. No inherited tenure, no money, no allies, no kind of advantage, and all he brought with him besides a genius prodigy's intellect, enough stubbornness and single-minded obsession to match any three adults _(that only grew worse as he aged)_ , and a small trunk not even full of his clothes and the few treasured, tattered books he'd been able to get hold of, were his family stories and the Allagan songs that had been passed down in his line. Those songs and his singing voice - always clear and pure, kittenish soprano settling into a soft tenor during puberty - were treasures he chose to keep for himself, singing while sitting under _(or in)_ a tree with his books where no one could hear him. 

_(He'd sung for Mihata, once, a carefully chosen gift. once and only once, an offering of his love, a confession in his own way, before either of them had ever spoken the words-)_

The crystal he kneels on, next to Xande's chair, is cold, seeping through the much-too-thin silks he's wearing, but there's nowhere he can go, not with him currently chained to the foot of Xande's throne. The sky above is dark, clouds threatening a storm in Mor Dhona, though no rain will fall inside the Tower. Perhaps predictably, the ancient emperor is in a mood, brooding on his throne about death and the impermanence and inherent meaninglessness of all things: usually, he does this kind of brooding alone, but he'd kept Raha here for...some reason. And even worse, he can feel the man's rage - one of the few emotions Xande can still feel properly- simmering around him in the thrumming of aether, an unfocused threat, but a very present threat nonetheless, a threat that hangs over him heavy and echoes in his bones, especially as he's still a nihilistic emperor who had started one Calamity through the use of the power of the Crystal Tower, the risk of a _second_ was too great. The man should be distracted, calmed down _(if possible)_ \- but how? 

_(Raha has little enough to keep for himself. His singing voice, his songs, have always been his treasures, kept for himself and willingly given to only one man-_

_But does he have any other choices, here? Closes his eyes tightly, for a moment, and tries not to cry, takes a breath-)_

None of the songs he knows - passed down through his family line, occasionally filled in with the help of the uncanny insight and mysterious knowledge sometimes granted him by his eye during one of his fits - are in the proper register of Allagan, not the lowest register that he's supposed to speak in. Whoever had taught his ancestor these songs had been a member of the Allagan royal line: he recognizes the register as one associated with the royal family, if a very low-ranking member. Takes a breath and begins to sing, clear and sweet, voice ringing out in the darkness, the last and only thing he has to give and hates that he has to do this, that this is all he had left for himself alone and now he doesn't even have that-

 _(Crystal-sweet, Mihata had described his voice, the one time he'd sang for him. A light on the edge of sleep. The last light, when all others go out. Raha had thought him_ _poetically exaggerating-)_

Raha expects Xande to be pleasantly distracted from whatever he was brooding over - and angry, because of the incorrect register - but doesn't expect him to be transfixed, the anger in his face smoothing out into tranquility and peace, eyes bright, brighter than Raha's ever seen them before. It's actually even more terrifying than even his rage is, most of the time: since he's come back from the dead, the ancient emperor has been unable to feel most emotions properly and hadn't known even a moment's peace. 

The moment is brief, only as long as the song he's singing lasts, and breaks the moment the last note ends. Anger twists the emperor's face as he grasps the chain and yanks, hard, pulling Raha to his feet, enormous hands wrapping around his throat, threateningly, his fingers vibrating with aether, grip impossible to break or get out of. There's half a dozen and more ways Xande could kill him, just like this, and for a moment, his heart beating fast in his chest like a caged bird's wings against the cage, Raha is resigned to his death - 

_(he'd intended to die at the start of this, after all. die for something worthwhile, die for love. a footnote, forgotten-)_

Instead, after a very long moment, the aether dissipates and Xande's grip relaxes, marginally, on his throat, just before one hand lets go entirely and the other grasps his collar, firmly, lifting him off his feet. It's still an alarmingly precarious position to be in, and anger - and the Void - still light his otherwise now-dead eyes, just before he backhands him hard enough that Raha can taste blood in his mouth and his head is ringing with the force of it. And again. Of course he's angry, Raha thinks, distantly, as he's dropped back on his feet, the impact jarring, he hadn't felt anything since he died and came back, and somehow, somehow, he'd managed to _somehow_ sing well enough that he remembered how to feel a living emotion again. 

"Ah," Xande says, after a long moment of silence, and casually backhands him again. "I know which of my worthless descendants was responsible for you, then." 

Raha doesn't ask, even though he's _curious_ , because even with his insatiable curiosity and lack of self-preservation, even he knows full well not to push the First Emperor any further, especially as he'd almost killed him. He doesn't ask, even as Xande picks him up and sits back down on the throne with him in his lap, shoves up his skirt and roughly pulls the blue crystal toy out of him ilm by ilm, making it as awful as possible: it _hurts_ every time it's shoved into him, much too thick and unyielding, but hurts even more to take it out, especially like this, and Xande is _clearly_ in a mood to hurt him as much as possible. 

"Salina," the ancient emperor says, apathetic, contemptuous, disapproving. "Easily the most worthless of my descendants, not even worth remembering except for her blood. It was one of her songs that you sang. I would never have expected _her_ to have been responsible for you - she was too gentle with her kitten. Not as she should have been, though she knew better." 

_(It's an answer, at least, or part of one, to the mystery that he's spent his whole life trying to figure out, spent his whole life searching for. Trying to find the nature of his family's mysterious connection with Allag, and a name to go with that answer, but there are pieces missing, still, and he knows it, this is far from the whole answer-)_

Cloth rustles just before Xande presses against him, barely oil-slick, and pulls him down onto his cock, buries himself halfway in him in one thrust and doesn't pause. Raha bites down on his lower lip, trying not to cry out in pain, before he's yanked down _all_ the way onto him, feet dangling well above the floor helplessly. The helpless noise he makes as he's impaled, as Xande makes him take _all_ of his cock, impossibly big and much too thick, never able to get used to it even with as many times as he's been raped by now, is a broken, lost little sob. But content, at least for now, to just remain buried all the way inside him, enjoying the warmth of his body. Doesn't move. 

"Did I tell you to stop singing, kitten?" Xande asks, voice low and menacing. "Keep singing, until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?" 

Raha closes his eyes, takes a slow, shuddering breath, and shakily begins to sing again. 

IV. 

The sky is dark, threatening a storm, and the crystal is cold beneath Raha's knees, his head bowed, enormous fingers running through the unbound red strands entirely ungently, possessively. His eyes are fixed on the crystal floor, trying to think of something else, anything else, than what Xande will do to him next, or what he'll have to give up or have taken from him next. 

_(He can endure, he can endure, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter what happens to him, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter-)_

And then, something that is both unexpected and what Raha has known in his bones would happen eventually, someday, if he just held on long enough, just held on and hoped for nothing more than that, happens. 

The great crystal doors to the throne room, closed since just after Unei and Doga had fled with Mihata, swing open slowly, opening inward, pushed open from the outside. And for the first moment since when he'd looked up at Xande standing over him, flat on his back, bow out of reach and completely out of arrows Raha dares to do something he hasn't done in however long it's been, something more than endurance, hoping against hope, something more than simply holding on-

 _(G'raha Tia dares to hope.)_


End file.
